I saw him before he saw me. I’d like to say it was the other way around, that he spotted me across the conference room and was drawn to me. But I was the one who noticed first. He was standing at the edge of the breakfast buffet, holding a plastic cup, frowning at the pastries as if they were a personal affront. He wore a classic suit that said he didn’t follow the latest fads.

I tried to guess his deal. He didn’t have a name tag, or if he did, it was hidden under the lapel of his jacket. The other men at this conference all had tells, flashy jewelry, obnoxiously expensive shoes, the quick flick of the eyes when a woman walked past. This one was still, almost bored, but when he finally looked up, his gaze was sharp enough to cut through glass. I wondered what it would feel like to be cut by those eyes.

I wasn’t supposed to be here, technically. My firm sent me as a test, or maybe a punishment, after the way I handled the last client. I was to keep a low profile, take notes, and try not to offend anyone important. So naturally, I gravitated toward the only person in the room who looked like he might be dangerous.

He caught me staring. I felt a flush rise up my neck, hot and humiliating, but I didn’t look away. Instead, I walked over, balancing my own coffee and a plate of fruit. Every step required focus.

“Do you know if the eggs are real?” I asked, nodding at the chafing dish.

He smiled, just a little. “They’re powdered.”

“Of course they are.”

He gestured at my lanyard. “Anya. That’s Russian, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “My parents thought it sounded elegant.”

He considered me for a moment, eyes unhurried. “Does it suit you?”

“No,” I said. “But I’m stuck with it.”

He laughed, low and easy, like it was the only natural response. “I’m Michael.”

“Just Michael?”

He shrugged. “I’m not big on credentials.”

We stood in silence for a moment, watching the other attendees circle each other like sharks. His attention felt like a kind of gravity I’d almost forgotten existed. Most men I met tried to impress, or at least assert, but he just waited. It made me nervous, which was almost pleasant.

He said, “Are you presenting?”

I shook my head. “I’m just here to observe. You?”

He looked down at his coffee, then back at me. “I’m always observing.”

I laughed, and he smiled, and for a moment the room faded. I didn’t know what to say next, so I excused myself and went to find a seat. But I could feel him watching me.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of panels and bad coffee. I saw him in the back of every room, always alone, always watching. Once, during a break, he stood beside me at the water cooler and said, “You don’t like crowds.”

I nearly choked. “How could you tell?”

“You stand back. You don’t play the game.”

“You don’t either.”

“No, I’m watching you.”

I tried to make a joke, but the words caught in my throat. I let the silence stretch, pretending to study the schedule. He didn’t press. I wondered if that meant he was bored, or if he was giving me space.

The day ended with a lame social event. I looked for him, but he had disappeared. Obviously he wasn’t interested in socializing.

Returning to my room, conflicting emotions swirled like a whirlpool. Not finding any solid ground, I took a shower and went to bed, wondering what the next day might bring.

I woke early, remnants of erotic dreams lingering. My hand was under my pajamas, fingers moving as if I were still dreaming. I paused, heart pounding, torn between finishing and savoring the ache. Michael’s voice echoed in my mind. I decided to savor the ache.

Getting dressed, I bypassed the usual plain underwear for a silk, navy set, sheer and edged with lace. The exterior might say corporate exec, underneath would be the real me. As the smooth fabric glided sensuously over my legs, I knew I had already decided.

Another predictable and boring day loomed making it easier to focus on Michael instead. We continued running into each other, pretending it was by chance. I wasn’t leaving it to chance. I needed to know. We talked. He probed. I felt myself being stretched thin with need.

At the obligatory cocktail hour in a windowless ballroom, I found a corner table and nursed a martini. Michael materialized beside me, this time with a glass of water and a look that said he’d had enough small talk.

He leaned in, voice low. “Are you always this careful?”

I tried to laugh; it didn’t work. “I’m not careful. I’m just…”

“Controlled,” he finished for me.

I could feel his eyes on my hands, the way I gripped the glass, how my nails were bitten short. I wanted to ask him what he saw, what I was giving away without meaning to. Instead, I said, “I don’t like surprises.”

He smiled, but it was different this time. “Many people say that. Few mean it.”

I watched his fingers as he ran them along the condensation of his glass. Something about the gesture made my heartbeat flutter, like they were running along my neck. I looked up and found him watching me, gauging my reactions, defining my obvious need.

I said, “You seem like someone who likes being in control,” a slight tremor giving away everything.

He didn’t answer at first. Then: “I like leading.”

“To where”

He shrugged. “Where the moment takes us.”

We stood there, the music and laughter from the crowd buzzing in my ears, until finally I couldn’t take it anymore, “Do you want to go outside?”

He looked at his watch like we were on the clock, but nodded and followed me. The air outside was wet and cold and smelled like urban malaise. I stood with my back to the wall, arms crossed, wishing I’d brought a jacket. Michael didn’t seem to notice the chill.

The silence prodded me, “I wish we were on an island somewhere.”

“What would you do?”

“I’d take off my clothes and run into the surf. Let the sun burn this dreariness off me.” My face flushed with the confession, surprised at my openness. “What would you do?” trying to take the focus off me.

He turned, bringing his face close, staring intently. “I’d stoke the heat the sun started.”

I didn’t know what to say. There was a long moment where I thought he might do more, and I realized I wanted him to. Instead, he leaned back against the wall so we were side by side, not touching. I shivered, not from the cold.

He said, “You’re not from here.”

I shook my head. “I grew up in a small town you’ve never heard of in the desert.”

He grinned. “That explains a lot.”

“Like what?”

He cocked his head. “Like why you don’t bother pretending.” After a pause, “Why did you move to the city?”

“I thought it would be fun and exciting. At first it was, then it wasn’t.” He seemed genuinely interested. “It’s just a game, isn’t it? A very big game,” my voice trailed off.

He looked around as if to see anyone was watching, then nodded ever so slightly. “Deals are made behind closed doors. Kickbacks generated. Some careers advance; some fade.” Looking away in disgust, “Boring.”

Moments slipped by, and it seemed as though we were nearing a dangerous edge. Turning toward me, his tone changed, “You, however, are not boring.”

I felt a warm tingle and gush from my pussy, his words stroking me like fingers. We sat silently, eyes exchanging looks, feeling the momentum building.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, trying to get a firm bead on him.

He looked around and then zeroed in on my eyes, “Looking for you.”

I smiled to hide the laugh and cry that threatened to erupt. “That’s a pretty lame line.”

“Only if it’s not true.”

Shit. I so wanted it to be true. I pressed, “How many times have you used that line?”

“None.” He didn’t try to defend himself or explain. I wasn’t used to any of this. He didn’t show any of the signs of lying. In this business, survival is based on knowing those signs.

He kept it going, peeling away another layer, “You don’t like this job.”

I laughed. “Is it that obvious?”

Motioning back to the ballroom, he said, “Maybe not to them. It is to someone who understands.” He smiled. “You’re too honest. Seems like you need an exit strategy.”

I looked down at my shoes. “That doesn’t seem like an option.”

He was quiet, and I wondered if I’d ruined it. But then he said, “What would you do, if you could?”

I looked up at the sky, so I wouldn’t have to look at him. “I’d do something where I didn’t have to pretend to be in charge all the time, have it all together.”

He nodded, as if he already knew but asked anyway. “Does it get tiring?”

I nodded, my throat tight.

He said, “You know, you don’t have to keep doing that. Not with me. Here. Now.”

I looked at him, not sure if he meant the small talk or the holding myself together. Maybe both. “What if I don’t know how to stop?”

He smiled, and this time it was almost gentle. “You let someone else do it for you.”

I let the words hang there, mist floating in the air. The parking lot was mostly empty, yellow streetlights casting ghostly shadows. I caught my reflection in the glass of the building, small, arms crossed, mouth set in a line that was supposed to pass for confidence. I’d been playing this character for so long I half-believed it was me.

“I’m not good at that,” I said. “Letting people.”

His voice was so quiet I almost missed it. “Maybe you haven’t met the right person.”

I wanted to laugh, but the feeling was sharp, almost dangerous. “Is that supposed to be you?”

He met my eyes. “It could be.”

The directness of it sent a shiver through me. I hardly knew him, but I couldn’t remember the last time someone talked to me like I was a question they wanted to answer.

I said, “What would you do, if you were me?”

He thought for a moment, then: “I’d come back to my hotel room. Let someone else decide what happens next.”

My mouth went dry. I tried to come up with a clever response, something that would make me sound in control, but nothing came. Relieved, I just nodded.

He didn’t move, hands in his pockets. I realized he was waiting for me say it out loud. It took everything I had to say one simple word. “Okay.”

We didn’t speak again as we walked, just the echo of my heels on the pavement and his easy stride beside me. The glass elevator climbed ten floors with a slow whine. In the reflection I saw us together, two strangers would-be lovers, moving slowly toward the inevitable.

His room was neat, anonymous, just like the hundreds of others at this place. He waved me in, set his key card on the desk and slipped out of his jacket. I stood by the window and looked down at the parking lot, the distant lights flickering in and out under a drizzle of rain. I could feel the tension in my arms, locked across my chest, and I wondered if he noticed.

He did. Of course he did.

He said, “Come here.” It was firm. I needed firm.

He sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded, watching me with that same careful attention as before. When I stopped, he reached out and took my wrist, gentle but not tentative.

“If you want to leave, now is the time,” he said, voice even, giving me one last chance to bail.

I nodded. “I know.”

He waited, as if expecting me to pull away. I didn’t. He let go, but I could still feel his grip, relishing it.

“Take off your jacket,” he said.

I did, folding it over the back of a chair, slow enough to keep my hands from shaking. I looked up. He was watching, but not in the usual way men do, like I was a show. It was more like he was reading a page and waiting for the next scene.

He reached out and gently removed my lanyard, setting it on the nightstand, like he was taking away a prop. The conference persona, gone. It was such a small thing, but I felt it in my stomach, some knot loosening. I felt slightly exposed, in a new, different way.

He patted the bed beside him. “Sit.”

I did, hands in my lap, knuckles white. I thought he might touch me, might try to tip my chin up or brush the hair from my face. Instead, he said nothing for a long moment.

Finally, “Tell me what you’re afraid of.”

I started to laugh. “You mean besides this?”

He smiled, just barely. “Yes. Besides this.”

I tried to think of an answer that wouldn’t sound rehearsed. “I’m afraid of needing things too much,” I said, surprised at my own honesty.

He nodded, as if that made perfect sense. “And if you did? Need something?”

“I’d probably ruin it,” realizing what had held me back for so long.

He was quiet. Then, “I don’t think so.”

He shifted so I was facing him, knees pressed together, hands dangling useless in my lap. He didn’t touch me, but his voice drew me closer, softer than before.

“Have you ever been spanked?”

The words hit me like a slap. I stared at my knees, heat creeping up my neck. He already knew. I shook my head no.

He smiled, as if he’d expected it. “Is that what you need?”

My body tingled. I didn’t trust my voice, so I just looked at him. He was patient, letting the silence stretch, letting me get used to the idea. I took a risk. It felt like now or never. “What I really need,” gathering the courage to finish, “is to let someone else decide.” My voice was small, trying out something very new. “To do whatever they wanted.” A shiver ran through me with the confession. I hadn’t admitted that to myself, much less someone else.

A glimmer sparked in his eyes, a predator who found a willing prey. He patted his thigh. “Face down. Over my lap.”

I hesitated, but he only waited. No pressure, no hurry. He was making me willingly ask for it. I scooted forward, awkward, until I was lying across his knees, my hips raised, my face buried in the bedspread. I could hear my own breathing, fast and shallow.

He smoothed a hand over the back of my skirt, pressing gently. I realized I was shaking. He must have noticed, because he kept his hand there, steady, warm.

He slid the fabric up, exposing my thighs, the lacy underwear chosen for this moment. “These for me?” resting his hand on the curve of my ass, his palm heavy and reassuring.

Nodding, I pushed back into his touch. “And for me.”

“Good call.” He took his time rubbing more, like he was memorizing my cheeks. “I’m going to start slow and easy,” he said. “But it won’t stay that way.”

A thrill ran through my body with the realization that what I needed was actually happening.

The first smack was more sound than sensation, a sharp pop that made my body jolt. I held my breath, waiting for the sting. It came a moment later, blossoming heat that spread across my ass. The second was harder, more deliberate. I flinched, but his other hand pressed firm against my lower back, holding me in place. It felt comforting. I couldn’t leave.

He found a rhythm, each slap a little harder than the last, measured and precise. The pain was real, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the deeper ache inside me, the one I’d been carrying for years. I tried to be quiet, but after the fourth or fifth I let out a sound, half gasp, half moan, muffled by the bedspread.

He paused, stroked my hair, and then kept going.

My ass was burning, throbbing, alive. I squeezed my eyes shut and let it happen. The urge to fight back, to wrestle away control, faded with every blow. I could hear my own voice, higher than I remembered, making noises I’d never made before. I was crying a little and didn’t care.

He stopped, finally, and I felt the cool air on my skin, the heat radiating out in waves. He rested his palm on the spot he’d marked, fingers tracing lazy circles. I was shaking, but not from fear.

“You did very well,” he said. His voice was low, proud.

I swallowed, trying to remember how to speak. “Thank you,” I managed.

He helped me up, gentle now, and pulled me onto his lap. I curled against his chest, breathing hard, his arms wrapped around me like I might float away. For a long time, neither of us spoke. He just held me, fingers stroking my hair, the back of my neck, the ridge of my spine. I felt hollowed out, emptied, but in a way that made room for something else.

He pressed his cheek to my temple. “This is what letting go of control feels like,” he said.

I wanted to laugh, or maybe cry, but I just nodded, eyes closed, letting the words settle.

After a while, he eased me off his lap. The air was cool against my skin, but felt soothing. My ass throbbed with every shift of my body, and I wanted to reach back and press my hand to it, just to feel the heat. Michael untied my hair, letting it fall loose around my face. He brushed it back with his fingers, slow, like he was untangling something delicate.

He left for a minute and came back with a glass of wine. I drank a sip, then clutched the glass to my chest. He sat beside me, one leg folded under the other, eyes soft.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

I tried to answer, but my throat was thick. I thought maybe I’d start sobbing, or maybe laugh until I choked. Instead, I just said, “Good. I think. I feel,” I searched for the word, almost afraid of what would emerge, “open.”

He nodded. “You are. I feel it.”

We sat in the quiet, settling into this new space. I wondered if anyone had ever been this kind to me after something so intimate. The answer made my chest ache.

He took the glass from my hand, had a sip, set it on the nightstand. “I want to see you,” he said, softer than before. “Take off your clothes.” It wasn’t a request. My body buzzed with the command.

I nodded, and, thankfully, my hands obeyed before my mind caught up. I stood, legs uncertain, and pulled my shirt over my head. My arms had goose bumps. He watched, but didn’t move, just waited while I unzipped my skirt, stepped out of it, peeled off my underwear. I stood there, naked except for my bra, arms crossed over my chest.

“Take that off, too,” he said.

My fingers fumbled at the clasp. The straps slipped from my shoulders, the cups falling away. My breasts were small, nipples dark and firm with excitement. My ass had a rose-red flush, visible even from the corner of my eye. The sight caused my nipples to hardened and moisture to trickle along my lips.

He smiled, patting the bedspread. “Come here.”

I moved to him, feeling the heat in my skin, the way my thighs wanted to press together. He guided me gently, turning me so I stood with my back to him. He pressed a pillow into my hands. "Bend over," he said, and the words made my knees want to give out. I knelt on the bed, hugging the pillow, and he arranged me, hips raised, spine extended, hair falling over my eyes. My ass was high and exposed, burning from his earlier attention. I felt raw, every nerve ending awake.

“Spread you legs wider.” I complied as moisture began running down my thigh. I felt both embarrassed and thrilled that he could see it.

I heard the belt before I felt it, the slide of leather through belt loops. He let it dangle, brushing the tip against my thigh, then trailed it upward, slow and deliberate, until it rested on the curve of my ass.

"Have you ever been whipped?" he asked.

My voice was small. "No."

“I think you’ll like this.” the smile obvious in his voice. I wanted to find out.

He let the belt slip away, then brought it back, a gentle tap, just enough to make me flinch. I tensed, waiting. The next stroke landed with more intention, a line of fire that made me gasp. He paused, let the pain settle, then did it again. And again.

Each stripe felt different, some sharp, others a deep, thudding ache. He alternated, sometimes just barely grazing my skin, sometimes laying on with force. I found myself arching into it, wanting more. Wanting it to hurt, to mark, to mean something.

He stopped and ran his hand over my ass, tracing the raised lines. I was shaking, tears gathering at the corners of my eyes, but I didn’t want him to stop. I wanted to be split open, remade.

He leaned in. "You’re doing so well, Anya.”

He let the belt fall to the bed. “Come here,” he said, but this time he took my hand and led me to the mirror beside the closet. I stood in front of the glass, naked, my face flushed and eyes shining. The marks on my ass were bright marks of pink and red in the reflection. It looked like something wild had happened to me, and I liked the proof of it.

He stood behind me, his hands gentle now, tracing the marks with a fingertip. “Tell me what you feel,” he said.

I tried to find the words. “Hot,” I said, surprised at the heat rising off my skin. “Tingly. Like it’s still happening.”

He nodded, his touch light, following the lines he’d drawn with such precision. “And inside?”

I looked at myself, really looked. My hair was wild, my eyes wide, lips swollen from biting. I barely recognized myself, but I didn’t want to trade places with the composed, careful Anya from before. “I feel… emptied out,” I said. “But in a good way. Like you took something away I didn’t need anymore.”

He smiled in the mirror, a proud, quiet smile. “That’s the idea.”

He pressed his palm flat against the small of my back, grounding me. I leaned into his touch, watching the way my body moved under his hands. He cupped my ass, squeezing gently, then ran his thumb along the red-edged curve. I shivered, the sensation electric.

“Do you want more?” he asked.

I nodded, afraid to say it out loud, but the need was undeniable. He saw it, and his lips curled in satisfaction. I could feel his approval like warmth under my skin.

He guided me back to the bed. This time, he set me on my knees, not bent over, but upright, straddling the edge of the mattress. My legs trembled, but I held the pose. He told me to lace my fingers behind my head, elbows wide, which made my breasts jut forward. I felt obscene, posed and displayed, but also invincible.

He picked up the belt again, and I braced for the sting, closing my eyes. But it didn’t come. Instead, he let the leather trail over my shoulders, down my arms, across my chest. He circled me, slow, a predator prowling. The belt flicked lightly against my nipples, then lower, skimming my belly, the insides of my thighs. I bit my lip, trying not to flinch as the cool, smooth surface trailed over the wet heat between my legs.

“You’re shaking,” he said, voice low and warm.

“I can’t help it.”

“It’s good,” he said. “You don’t have to do anything but feel.”

He let the tip of the belt rest against my clit, not moving it, just letting the pressure build. I gasped, but didn’t drop my hands. He watched, eyes hungry, as my hips rocked forward, chasing the sensation. I could feel myself dripping, thighs slick. I knew he could see everything. The humiliation was delicious, a relief, not having to pretend anymore. No more hiding.

He stepped close, the belt folded over his palm. He brought it up to my mouth, a silent command. I kissed it, the leather bitter and sharp against my lips. Something about the gesture made me feel claimed. I wanted more.

He dragged the belt down my body, slow and deliberate. “Every part of you,” he said. The first snap hit my shoulder, a quick flick, then the other arm. It stung, but also made my chest tighten with anticipation. He moved lower, striking the outside of my thigh, then the inside, so close to my pussy I whimpered. He alternated, each stroke a different flavor of pain, a different place on my skin. Sometimes gentle, a whisper. Sometimes sharp, a warning.

Between each stripe, he used his hands. Fingers in my hair, along my jaw, cupping my breast and squeezing until I gasped. He pinched my nipple, rolled it, then let the belt snap against it, a bright, cutting line of sensation that made me arch and cry out. I thought I should beg him to stop, but I needed him not to stop more.

He knelt in front of me, his hands on my hips, steadying me. “You’re beautiful like this,” he said, and I believed him. No one had ever said it like that to me before, and I was glad I was on my knees when it hit me.

He kissed me, not my lips but my neck, then my collarbone, then the place where the belt had raised a mark. His tongue was gentle, tracing each spot, soothing the burn. He worked his way down, slow and patient, licking a line along my shoulder to the red-streaked curve of my breast. When he reached my nipple, he took it into his mouth, sucking softly, then biting just enough to make me gasp.

He moved lower, hands firm on my hips, guiding me to the mattress. His mouth followed the path of pain, kissing every place the belt had landed. He licked the inside of my thigh, where the skin was red and tender, and the contrast of pain and comfort made me tremble. When he reached my pussy, he paused, just breathing, letting me feel the heat of his mouth so close. I was desperate for him, the pressure building until I thought I’d break.

“Please,” I whispered, and he smiled against my skin.

He licked me, slow at first, exploring, tasting. His tongue was strong, deliberate. He kept his hands on my thighs, holding me open, making sure I couldn’t escape. He found my clit and flicked it, light as a feather, then circled with more force. I bucked against his face, but he just held me tighter. He was in no hurry.

When he slipped a finger inside, I nearly sobbed. It felt like too much, everything too sharp, bright and beautiful. I could feel my whole body clenching down, frantic for more friction, more pressure, more pain, more anything. My hands clutched at the sheets, then at his shoulders, then I tried to push his face away, but he caught my wrists, pinned them to the bed, and kept licking, harder now, relentless, until I was sobbing with need.

“Please,” I said again, louder this time, “I need…”

He pulled away, just far enough to speak. “Not yet.”

I thrashed in his grip, frustrated and humiliated and desperate, but the way he held me, firm, unyielding, careful, made me want to obey. it was a relief to not have a choice. I sucked in air, blinked away tears, tried to hold still. He watched me, breathing hard, then released my wrists and sat back on his heels.

He tugged me upright, so suddenly I nearly fell off the mattress. “Come here,” he said, and slid up onto the bed, leaning against the headboard. He was still fully dressed, which made me feel naked in a way I hadn’t even when I was standing in front of the mirror. His cock was hard, straining against his pants, and I wanted it in my mouth, my ass, anywhere, but I waited, trembling.

“Straddle me,” he said.

I climbed onto his lap, awkward and unsteady, my thighs sore from kneeling, my ass still throbbing. I could feel the heat of his cock, the shape of it pressing up against me. He put his hands on my breasts and squeezed, hard, until my breath caught. His thumbs found my nipples and twisted, pinching until I whimpered. The pain was sharp, almost electric, and I arched my back involuntarily, pressing myself harder into his grip. He didn’t let up. He wanted me to feel it, to know he was in control.

“Lean back,” he said, voice low and steady.

I hesitated, but he pressed until I arched away from him, my spine a tight bow, my chest thrust out. His hands stayed still, never leaving my nipples, holding them between thumb and forefinger, pinching and rolling, harder and harder until I gasped. The pain radiated through my whole body, a current that made my pussy clench and my vision blur. “Lean further,” he pushed.” I did.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “Don’t move.”

He kept me there, bent and helpless, while he alternated between twisting and pulling. The pain was exquisite, so sharp I almost felt numb, but underneath was a deep, aching pleasure that made my whole body tremble. I could feel the wetness dripping onto his lap, and I knew he could feel it, too.

Pulling me forward, he let go suddenly, and the blood rushed back into my nipples, sending a wave of sensation that made me cry out. His mouth covered my cry as his fingers found my clit, relentlessly pressing and squeezing the sensitive bud. He pushed me to the edge of what I could take, and then one step further. Tears streamed down my cheeks, he licked them and smiled, “Now, you may cum.”

When he gave the word I felt the release like a wire snapping inside me, everything compressed and straining abruptly let go. My body jerked. The first shock of it was so sharp it hurt. Then the pleasure hit, a flood, a hurricane, a hot, wild surge from inside out. I had no control. My thighs locked down around his hips, and my nails dug into his arms, desperate for something to hold onto. My head flew back. I screamed, wordless, helpless. Every muscle in my body convulsed, then snapped tight, then let go again, as if someone else was making me move.

I was coming, really coming, not in the half-muffled, careful way I had always done before but like an animal, wracked apart, wrung out. It didn’t stop. Once, twice, I lost count, my whole body bucked and shook and the sounds coming out of my mouth didn’t sound human. My pussy pulsed, seized, then spasmed so hard I thought I’d pass out. Wetness gushed between us, soaking his pants and the sheets and probably the floor. Heat roared in my head and my vision went white.

He didn’t let go. He kept his hands on me, steadying, guiding me through it, his grip both command and comfort. He whispered things I couldn’t process, just a warm, low hum in my ear, and his hand stroked the back of my neck until the shaking ebbed. I collapsed forward, limp, boneless, spent. I would have fallen if he wasn’t there to catch me.

He pulled me upright, holding me while I dissolved. Folding me into his arms like a child, I burrowed against him and shook, wrung out, unsure if I was crying or laughing or just convulsing. I wanted to tell him thank you but the words were stuck somewhere behind my teeth, so I just pressed my face into his shoulder and let the salt of my tears soak into his shirt. He stroked my hair and murmured, “You’re okay. You’re beautiful,” over and over, a lullaby for the animal I’d turned into.

After a while the shaking slowed, and I became aware of the room again. The lamp on the nightstand threw a warm, honeyed light over everything. The curtains were drawn, the world outside a distant rumor. He held me until my breath evened, until the trembling ebbed to a faint, pleasant shiver. I wondered if I’d ever felt this light before, as if something inside me had been scoured clean.

He shifted me in his lap so he could see my face. “Look at me.”

I tried. My eyes were teary and red. My lips tingled, raw from biting. He wiped a thumb gently beneath my eye, collecting the tears. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”

I tried to think. Everything was jumbled. I said, “Floating. Like my body is half-solid and half- fluid. Like I could fly.”

When he smiled, I knew I’d given the right answer.

“That’s called subspace,” he said. “You’re a natural.”

I nodded, though I wasn’t sure what it meant. I just knew I needed him, badly. He stood me up, steadying me by the hips, and then he stripped with precise movements, until he was bare from the waist up. His body was sinewy, not overly buff but dense with a strength I wanted to feel with my hands and taste with my mouth.

He looked at me over his shoulder as he shucked his pants and briefs, as if daring me to flinch. I didn’t. I watched every motion, every subtle flex and shift of muscle. His cock sprang free, hard and thick, the sight of it making my mouth water and my pussy tingle.

“Come here,” he said, and I went, knees wobbly, but eager. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled me to stand between his knees. He traced the lines on my hips, the marks on my ass, the wetness streaking my inner thighs. He ran a finger through my slick and brought it to my lips. I licked it without instruction.

“Good girl,” he murmured, and the praise made something in me surge. He leaned forward and sucked a nipple into his mouth, tonguing the mark he’d left, and I moaned, my hands sinking into his hair, pulling him closer.

His mouth wandered down to my slick pussy, his tongue playfully teasing my clit. My pelvis urgently pressed forward, seeking more. He let me use him, let me grind against his mouth, let me whimper and shudder and beg, until the need in me had nowhere left to go.

He pulled back, face slick with me, and looked up, satisfied. He said, “Ready?”

I nodded, shameless, greedy. He grinned and lay back, hands behind his head, cock rigid and leaking against his belly.

“Climb on,” he said.

I did, straddling his hips, the skin of my thighs burning against the rough of his. I hovered, trembling, then lowered myself onto the head of his cock, feeling the pressure, the stretch, the way I had to open for him. He didn’t help, just watched, eyes burning into me, as I impaled myself inch by inch. It hurt, in the best way, and I took him slow, savoring the way he filled me, the way my body trembled to accept him.

Once I bottomed out, he rested his hands lightly on my hips. He brought his face right next to mine, his tongue flicking over my lips. The look in his eyes told me everything I needed to know. About him. About me. It was freedom, to feel everything. I had let go of control, and in that surrender, I found an unexpected power. Every nerve in my body sang with awareness as he guided me, his hands firm but gentle, coaxing me to move however I wanted, forward, back, grinding, even just shuddering in place, impaled and fully open.

With each thrust, I felt the layers of the corporate persona peel away, revealing something softer, more vulnerable beneath. The weight of expectation fell off my shoulders, replaced by a heady sense of liberation. I was no longer Anya the executive, the woman who wore tailored suits and navigated boardrooms with precision.

I was just Anya, raw, exposed, and utterly alive.